Firsts
by Ravenhurst
Summary: AU to the CollarRedux AU.  Greg meets his first fellow.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** A big ol' thanks to oflymonddreams for creating the CollarRedux AU for us to play in. I've had a good time thinking about the way this world works and how to move characters around inside it.

This is an AU story to the CollarRedux universe and is set at the beginning of Greg's time at PPTH, a couple weeks after the end of Sixteen Days. The year is 1990ish, 15 – 16 years before the events of the first CollarRedux story.

I've got a big chunk of this story already written, so with any luck updates will come frequently, though probably not with clockwork regularity.

Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer:** Blah blah Fox blah blah. The CollarRedux AU comes to us courtesy of the hard work of oflymonddreams and ; this is an independent story and not part of that storylines they've created (an AU to an AU). Dr. Brian Marten is an original character; you can borrow him if he strikes your fancy, but he's a nice guy so you'll put him back when you're through, right?

**Firsts**

Chapter One

Compared to large regional medical centers that surrounded it, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was of little regard. It was small in size and, except for being known as a center of research by virtue of being a teaching hospital, its reputation was largely unremarkable. There were bigger and arguably better institutions within ten minutes' drive, so its low profile was perhaps inevitable. Though PPTH was dwarfed in terms of prestige and access, it had a distinctive character. The century-old medical college had been gutted after the First World War and was turned into a teaching hospital a few decades later. A visitor might be struck by the contrast of steel and glass with granite and slate. Their opinion of that contrast was as varied in form as the building itself.

Considerable work had gone into making PPTH into the building it had become, but renovation could only improve so much of it. Cutting-edge equipment and industry-changing research aside, if there was no space to expand into, it was nearly impossible for any hospital to grow.

Even knowing that space was a scare commodity and thus fiercely fought over, Lisa Cuddy had not expected the outcry that arose at her decision to provide her pet Diagnostics slave with his very own office. According to the department heads – and to the nurses, doctors, interns, clinic staff, medical school staff, alumni association, and hospital administrators that had paraded through her office over the past week – there were any number of more worthy things to be done with the space that had been officially given over to the newly-christened Diagnostics department.

"It's obscene," one immunology fellow had declared. Days later, Cuddy could still hear the man's tone of voice hinting that he wasn't just talking about the space her new project was taking up.

Though she couldn't admit it without clenching her jaw, Cuddy had a new admiration for Mrs. Foster, the woman who managed to keep track of each and every slave on the PPTH property. Granted, the facilities that served all the slaves had been installed decades ago; Cuddy didn't even know when. She, on the other hand, was building a slave's quarters entirely from scratch and learning the basics of slave management without any guidance. Every day there turned out to be some item that needed addressed. Currently, she was faced with having to provide Greg some measure of privacy. Having Greg shower, dress, and wash up in the staff restroom down the hall had generated a number of complaints by nightshift and swing shift workers. Giving him a cot from surplus to sleep on had also drawn complaints; apparently no one was interested in seeing someone, especially a slave, sleeping inside a glass room. So, despite new grumbling about renovating a space that could have been used for something better, Cuddy had drawn up and had approved a small budget to create a partitioned cubicle for Greg. Construction had started three days ago.

To calm the clamor raised by unhappy staff, she was quick to reassure people that this cubby space wouldn't only be for the slave to sleep and dress in; it would double as an office for him to work. Just as it was looking like everyone who had something to say had said it, there was one more voice Cuddy found complaining to her.

"I can't sleep," Greg was saying. "If I can't sleep, I can't work."

"They'll be done soon," Cuddy said, barely glancing away from her work. The slave had on his roll top shirt; he had just finished his morning clinic shift and had shown up to her office just as she had told him to. She had business to discuss with him, but he was about to explain – again – that because the maintenance slaves were only allowed to work at night, the work wasn't progressing quickly and it was keeping him up at night.

"I know they're not at it all night," she cut in. "And that's the end of it. Now, do you have your short list of applicants? I've given you more than enough time."

Greg visibly sulked. "I have two names," he said.

"Who?"

"Doctors Ono and Riley."

"No good. Dr. Ono is on maternity leave and Dr. Riley is on vacation in Europe. Isn't there anyone else? You had a couple dozen CVs."

"They're the best fit."

"Fine. But in the meantime, pick someone else." Greg started at the floor and didn't reply. "I need Diagnostics up and running; I don't have time for you to be picky."

Greg didn't look up. "Marten," he said.

"Go back to Diagnostics. I'll call Dr. Marten and schedule an interview."

Dr. Brian Marten, Cuddy discovered, was a gangly epidemiologist who divided his time between the lecture hall and a tiny fifth floor office. He had extensive lab experience, though these days he spent most of his time heading up a regional team of disease experts. According to his CV, he had done some important work tracking communicable disease prevalence in immigrant populations up and down the east coast. An impressive enough resume, but nothing Cuddy saw stood out as something that would have caught Greg's eye.

"You understand what this position would require from you, correct?"

Marten nodded. He had been at Greg's presentation of the proposal for the development of a Diagnostics department last month and understood that he would be working directly under a slave owned by the hospital.

"I've worked with a number of slaves over the years," he said. "They're not uncommon in labs."

"Well, you probably won't be spending much time in a lab." _And Greg isn't anything like those slaves_, she added to herself.

"I understand. Though –" Marten hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Don't get me wrong; I'm flattered to have been given a fellowship position. But could you tell me why I was chosen? I haven't worked with patients since I was in residency."

Cuddy stood up. "You'll have to ask Greg about that. I'll show you the way to Diagnostics."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** - A big thank you to everyone who has read and especially to those who have left reviews. I hope all you readers continue to enjoy the story.

Once again, this is an AU story to the CollarVerse created by oflymonddreams, set not long after the end of the story Sixteen Days. Though I've shamelessly borrowed the setting, circumstances, and characters, this story has nothing to do with any other CollarVerse storyline.

I'm still struggling with formatting issues, so I apologize if things look wonky.

Thanks for reading!

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><p><strong>Firsts<br>**Chapter Two

Dr. Marten knew he was in the right place because the glass door was helpfully labeled "Diagnostics". Through the glass walls he could see an assortment of office furniture and a collection of construction materials piled neatly against the far wall, just underneath the window. As he reached for the door, Marten saw a slave nudging the construction junk with his foot.

The slave looked up when Marten entered. "What?"

Marten paused. "I'm Dr. Brian Marten."

"Oh. Yes. Have a seat."

Marten brushed the construction dust off one of the visitors' chairs and sat down. Apparently the confidence the slave had displayed at the presentation of his paper had not been an act. Marten sat, ready for the interview to begin.

Greg caught the flicker of annoyance that crossed the doctor's brow. This wasn't the way Greg wanted to begin his first interview, but it was too late to start over. Besides, if this free man wasn't ready to take direction from a slave, it was his fault for applying for the position. Greg pulled out Marten's CV from the pile that had been stacked neatly on the desk.

"Epidemiology. Lab work. Lecturer," he read. "What made you want to apply for a Diagnostics fellowship?"

Marten calmly met the slave's – Dr. House's – sharp gaze. "I met all the criteria for the position."

"I can see that, but why did you apply? What do you want to get out of your time here?"

"I'm interested in working on a new discipline. I have some wide-ranging experience and I feel I can bring a lot to the team."

Standard interview fare. House said nothing.

"I'm good at patterns," Marten said. "Epidemiology is all about patterns and I'm good at spotting them."

"Better," Dr. House said. "What else?" When Marten didn't answer, he snapped, "What else?"

Now it was Marten that glared. An interview was supposed to be a conversation between professionals; this wasn't going in any direction he had expected.

"I wanted to work with you," he admitted. "I was impressed by what you had to say at your presentation. I enjoy my work and I'd like to see what a fellowship in Diagnostics could bring to my future research."

"And what exactly would working with individuals bring to a study of populations? If I hired you, you'd be treating patients with highly unique presentations. Not exactly the stuff of useful epidemiology."

"That . . . remains to be seen. I may learn exactly that during my time here."

"You realize that Dr. Cuddy intends for Diagnostics fellows to pursue this discipline for the long-term. She might decide that my hiring you would be ultimately a waste of resources."

"It's possible," Marten conceded.

"And," Greg said, dropping the CV to the desk, "You aren't the applicant I want to hire. You should know this right now. Unfortunately, the applicants I want to interview aren't available right now, but Dr. Cuddy is insistent that I start doing the work she bought me to do." He grinned tightly. "To do that, I need a team."

"It sounds like we all have to take a chance, then."

Greg said nothing for a moment, then rose and offered his hand.

"Welcome to the team, Dr. Marten."

* * *

><p>Alone again, Greg slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes. Interviews were uncomfortable on either side of the desk and he had fought against spikes of fear all throughout the brief conversation. There was no rational basis for his fear. Hiring would be based on his decision and Marten needed to understand from the very beginning that the hierarchy separating free person from slave that existed beyond the glass walls of Diagnostics ended at the department door. No, Marten didn't just need to understand that – he had to believe it.<p>

The trouble was, Greg wasn't sure if he believed it himself.

As the Diagnostics department had become more and more tangible, Greg felt his old personality creeping out to fill the corners of his soul and, gradually, the office itself. As the space filled with furniture and the reference materials he had requested, the once-neglected office became filled with purpose, with direction. Now that the space had an identity - Diagnostics - Greg had an identity, too - the Diagnostics slave. Not, perhaps, the identity he had aspired to, but it was better than the futures he had envisioned during his time in processing.

The future was a terrifying thing for any slave; he had discovered that quickly. The treatment slaves were put through in processing broke down the human tendency to seek patterns and plan for the future based upon those patterns. Being kept in a constant state of terror and abuse, with no day unfolding the same as any other, and being subjected to treatment they couldn't understand or even anticipate arrested the slaves' ability to be aware of anything except the immediate present. Greg understood now that this wasn't just a matter of getting a slave to pay attention to whatever instruction they were given; this was a form of thought control. If a person's present was unpredictable and terrifying, their entire attention would be focused upon coping with present circumstances. No thought could be given to anything else.

Processing had broke him, just as it had broken so many others. Ironically, in the end the orders he had been given demanded that he recover his marked ability to think about the future in highly detailed, nimble ways. It had been no small struggle to bring that ability back to the surface. Doing so meant that he was now constantly aware of the damnable situation he found himself in. Other slaves could settle back into a semi-conscious state, reacting only when given instruction. Greg's new function required him to be aware of his surroundings all the time. He was also aware of the anger and resentment that sat heavily in his gut.

He was stupidly grateful for every scrap he'd been given since Cuddy had installed him in Diagnostics. Even as he savored the gift of clean shirts and a nylon cot still musty from storage, he was disgusted at his reaction. Travel size bottles of shampoo. Furniture from surplus. A blanket from the slave dorms he had so recently left. Even here, in an office being renovated with his needs in mind and surrounded by things meant to be used by the team he'd be personally directing, he couldn't get away from the fact of his slavery.

He was disgusted at wanting to kiss Cuddy's shoes for what he'd been given. He wanted to succeed but not just for his own ego's satisfaction. Like a child or pet he wanted Cuddy's approval because it was by her favor that he received anything at all. He needed her reassurance that she wasn't going to sell him or send him back to the basement with the other hospital slaves. Greg's rational internal voices told him that Cuddy had been nothing but committed to the course and had gone out of her way more than once to see to his needs. Rationally, he had all the mental faculties necessary to do this job. At the same time, the irrational voices reminded him that he had come to ruin by his own hand. He'd been judged incapable of taking care of his own life; how could possibly be trusted to take care of the lives of others? The dark voice of those irrational fears reminded him that he could still fall a long way, indeed. Not just to the basement level of the hospital with nothing to look forward to except long years of sanitation work, but sale to the kind of research institution housed in a building without windows.

Fear was making him anxious and jumpy. He had to get that under control or he'd blow his chance at making this work.

Pushing aside his maudlin thoughts, Greg turned his attention to the CVs still on the desk. He tapped them neatly together then tucked them into one of the desk drawers. While some of the furniture was from hospital and university surplus, the desk was new. One of the drawers still held the obligatory user's manual and Styrofoam blocks. Nudging aside crumpled shrink wrap, he found a sheet of paper with multilingual assembly instructions.

He smoothed the paper out the best he could and carefully began to fold it.

* * *

><p>After the slave had shaken his hand and welcomed him to the team, Dr. Marten had been sent off to find a case. Not knowing where else to go, he strode off to the ER. The ER was where things happened quickly, so if he needed to find a case quickly, that was the most reasonable place to find one.<p>

He didn't have to wait long. A troop of nurses wheeled a gurney quickly down the hall and into one of the ER bays.

"Collapsed at the mall food court; ambulance got her fifteen minutes ago. They gave her some epinephrine but she's still weak." One nurse began calling to the others as they got quickly to work.

"What's her allergy? Does she have a medic alert bracelet?"

"Nothing on her wrist, nothing in her bag." A glossy red handbag was tossed out of the way.

Another ER nurse tapped the young woman smartly between the breasts; groggy eyes opened. "Listen; you need to tell us what you're allergic to."

Marten stepped closer to hear the patient speak. "Nothing. I'm not allergic to anything."

"You've had an allergic reaction to something. What did you eat? Did you inhale anything?"

"No. No, I just had a burger and fries. I've been tested; I'm not allergic to anything." Her voice was tired but her words were clear.

A woman having an allergic reaction to something she wasn't allergic to. This sounded promising.

* * *

><p><em>How will Greg react to his first Diagnostics case? Will Marten become a useful part of the team? Will the construction ever get finished? For these answers and more, stay tuned!<em>


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Another update so soon? The fanfic fairies must think you guys are awesome. Oh, and if you're liking this one, perhaps you'd like to take a peek at _No Escape_, another CollarVerse AU fic I'm working on.

Thank you again for all the support!

**Disclaimer:** Blah blah Fox blah blah. The CollarVerse is the creation of oflymonddreams; this is an AU to that 'Verse and isn't related to any other CollarVerse or CollarVerse AU story.

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><p><strong>Firsts<strong>

_Chapter Three_

Sarah Cunningham had awoke, washed, dressed, and regarded the contents of her refrigerator with loathing. She was sick to death of fruit and yogurt smoothies and scrambled eggs. She wanted pancakes. She wanted cold cereal. She wanted to eat frozen waffles just like she had when she was a kid.

There was a time that Sarah would have considered herself to be in good health. She had suffered through childhood illnesses with no great trouble and, except for a couple bad ankle sprains while playing soccer in high school, she was never off her feet because of an injury. Good health had always come easy.

Then she had moved off to college. Suddenly her body rejected her favorite foods. She had stomach cramps at first, then later the more serious allergic symptoms set in. She'd never experienced allergies before; neither had anyone in her family. Sarah went to the free clinic at Princeton-Plainsboro hoping to find an answer. The clinic doctor she saw sent her for a skin test. A couple nurses had scratched her skin then rubbed a bit of liquid into each scratch. They explained to Sarah that each liquid contained a different allergen – peanuts, coconuts, ragweed pollen, pet dander, and so forth. The results all came back negative. A couple weeks later, she went back again and told the clinic doctor that she was still experiencing symptoms in response to something she was eating. He had suggested that Sarah keep a food diary, then come back for another test in a month or two. Sarah was unhappy at the lack of answers, but at least it gave her something to do.

The food diary had actually turned out to be a pretty good idea. She still had no idea what was making her sick, but she had identified a number of things that didn't. That was good, right? Fruits and vegetables were safe, but they had to be fresh or frozen, not canned. Meat was also okay, but she had to buy it raw and cook it herself (yuck). Eggs, canned tuna fish, milk, and cheese were fine; margarine and mayonnaise were not. To her great disappointment, her favorite bread had to be struck from the safe list. Now if she wanted bread, she had to buy the ridiculously expensive stuff that tasted like cardboard and even that wasn't entirely safe.

She wanted a sandwich. She wanted a sandwich for lunch, cold cereal for breakfast, and frozen waffles for dinner. In order to accommodate her increasingly picky stomach, she'd purged her kitchen of all the foods that gave her so much as a tickle in her throat.

"Fuck this shit," she mumbled to the fridge full of boiled eggs and leftover tuna.

Driving to the mall, she planned it all out a step at a time. _I want a burger_, she thought. Warm, toasted bun. Cool ketchup squeezing onto her fingers as she took a bite. Melted cheese clinging to the roof of her mouth as she rolled the food between her jaw. Yes. A cheeseburger.

In the line at the food court, her stomach audibly growled. Never had she wanted a meal as badly as she wanted this one.

Cheeseburger. French fries. Large soft drink. Hand the money over, carry the tray to a table.

Perfection.

For a single moment, her conscience reminded her of the little red food journal she kept tucked in her purse, handy just in case she needed to refer to it.

No. Salt, grease, cheese, and an icy drink was all that mattered right now. Tiptoeing around a ridiculous allergy had gotten her no answers. She was tired of obeying rules she didn't understand and complaining to doctors who could give her no answers. It was her life, why couldn't she live it on her own terms?

Fuck that shit.

The attack came suddenly. As she struggled for breath on the filthy mall floor, she heard voices calling out for help.

* * *

><p>"Twenty-three year old woman suffered an allergic reaction in the mall, fell and hit her head, then was rushed to the ER. She was given a skin test last month for allergens but everything came back negative. The ER nurses asked her about allergies and she told them she didn't have any." Marten closed the patient file and handed it to his new boss.<p>

"And yet she's experiencing an allergic reaction. Clearly she's allergic to something." Greg was again seated at the desk, glancing up now and again from a bit of paper he was folding. His long fingers creased and bent the shape between them. Marten ignored him.

"She's been tested for every common allergen. Everything came back negative."

"Then can we test her for every uncommon allergen?"

"There's hundreds, thousands, of uncommon allergies. We can't test for them all. She needs help now."

"Then I suggest we stop wasting time. What can you tell me about her?'

Marten shrugged. "Like I said, she's twenty-three; Caucasian, both parents alive; we've been trying to contact them but so far they haven't returned our calls. She's a college student."

"Has she traveled anywhere? Been out of the country?"

"I didn't ask."

"Go do a thorough patient history. I need to know where she's been living, what she does on her free time, her sexual history, anywhere she's traveled, what she likes to read."

"Anything else?" Marten was skeptical; no diagnosis could be made based on hobbies and choice in reading material.

"Yes," House said. "Find out what her favorite foods are."

* * *

><p>Cuddy had resisted calling Dr. Wagner but she knew she couldn't put it off forever. Though she prided herself on being a progressive, forward-thinking administrator, she couldn't entirely shake her bias against the "soft" science of psychology. Wagner's work was admirable, but she considered Greg's management to be a pragmatic concern. The new slave required food, clothing, somewhere to sleep, work to do. What was there, aside from that?<p>

She was beginning to see that she hadn't thought this through in a realistic manner. No, scratch that. She had made decisions based upon the information in her possession at the time. That Greg would arrive at PPTH as not much more than a trembling husk of a human being was not something she could have foreseen. She also couldn't have known that setting up the Diagnostics department was proving easier than setting up the Diagnostics slave. Cuddy needed to know that the valuable equipment she had acquired was going to function in the manner she required of it. In the past two months, the shrinking, cringing slave that had initially been delivered to the hospital had receded and a confident, well-spoken professional began to emerge. Still, Cuddy needed to know more.

Making sense of emotional matters had always proved difficult. Cuddy's skills lay in knowing how to pair the right person with the right job. So, she made a phone call to who that right person was most likely to be.

Dr. Wagner had distinguished himself by spending the last fifteen years studying slave psychology. As he would tell anyone unlucky enough to be cornered by him at a dinner party, slaves were not monolithic beings, interchangeable in their sameness. In fact, there was considerable nuance and variety among slaves. He would then explain at length the marked psychological changes a slave underwent over the period of their enslavement. In fact (he would add after another glass of champagne), there was clear developmental stages of what he called the slave personality. Cuddy didn't really care one way or the other about the psychology of slavery or anything else Wagner had to say about developmental stages or personality indicators or behavioral analysis. But she needed his insight, longwinded as it apparently was.

When she couldn't take it any longer, she interrupted Wagner. "Yes, that all makes sense. But Greg is a special case. It's not in the hospital's interest to rely solely on physical disciplinary measures since he needs to be able to work. Since he's been here, he's had nightmares, he's been fearful, withdrawn. When he's not being stubborn and insubordinate, he's anxious and jumpy. That's fine for a maintenance slave, but –"

"- But Greg isn't a maintenance slave," Wagner said. "He is, as you put it, an expensive piece of hospital equipment. And you are wise to notice that this particular piece of hospital equipment requires a level of upkeep unlike most of our other 'tools'." He began musing into the air. "A finely tuned machine requires careful handling."

That Greg required handling beyond that of a normal slave made Cuddy impatient; he had cost her enough time already. She was too busy to pay attention to Greg's maintenance, but she had already taken on the task. Giving up on it now would mean that she couldn't control him. That would mean that her experiment had failed. She grit her teeth.

"That's why I've asked you here. I need to know what Greg needs to keep him as functional as possible for as long as possible."

"It's a tricky situation. Most slaves can be made dependent upon their routine and mundane tasks. They quickly become reliant on the routine imposed upon them and lose their ability to make complex choices for themselves."

"But I need Greg to – "

Wagner interrupted. "Yes, yes. Just hear me out. Like I said, _most_ slaves become dependent upon their routine. However, occasionally you get a slave that is too smart for their own good. These personalities are considerably harder to force into line. If they can be put into a position where they receive some measure of mental stimulation, they will thrive. If, oh, they're given cleaning detail for the rest of their lives or kept as sexual playthings, pretty soon you will have trouble on your hands. Simply put," he concluded, "a smart slave becomes a bored slave, and a bored slave becomes a problem slave."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** And it's back! I hope to get _Firsts_ finished in February because I've got another story percolating in my brain. (Sneak preview: involves coffee and, quite possibly, a golf cart. Non-CV.)

As always, thank you to everyone who has read, subscribed, and reviewed the story.

**Disclaimer:** Blah blah Fox blah blah; I don't own the playground, I just dig in the sandbox. The CollarVerse is the creation of oflymonddreams. This story is AU to the CollarVerse and isn't connected to any CV/CV AU story.

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><p><strong>Firsts<strong>  
>Chapter Four<p>

When Dr. Cuddy caught sight of the new Diagnostics fellow walking purposefully down the hall in her direction, she chose to interpret the little crease between his eyebrows as concentration, not frustration. Realistically, she knew that not every applicant who applied for fellowship would be cut out for taking directions from a slave, but she held on to the optimistic ideal that Greg's first choice of applicants would work out perfectly – even if he was actually second choice. She nodded to Dr. Marten as he passed him; he acknowledged her and hurried on.

Cuddy told herself that she wanted to check on the construction project. Greg said it had been going on for a few nights, maybe that meant it was near completion. And it wouldn't hurt to prod him about creating a second short list of applicants if Marten didn't work out, and hadn't she asked for a list of medical journals Greg would need for the department? She wasn't going to admit that she wanted to weigh Dr. Wagner's observations about smart slaves becoming problem slaves. Wagner was of the opinion that Greg would crave novelty and variety even when he had an intellectually stimulating workload. That wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. She wanted to hear that Greg could keep himself focused and managed and that all she'd need to do was provide occasional guidance. Getting to know Greg's psychology was a touchy proposition; it felt disturbingly intimate. Forming a personal connection with the slave had to be avoided at all costs; she was already too close to him as it was. Better to put Wagner's words to the side for now.

Greg was seated at the large desk in the center of the conference room when she entered. Construction materials were stacked near the far window. A large sheet of plastic drop cloth had been tacked over a framework of wooden beams that would eventually support a wall. Greg stood up when she entered.

"You decided to hire Dr. Marten?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am - yes, Dr. Cuddy. I believe his experience in the lab will be useful."

"Good. We can contact Riley and Ono when they get back."

"How many fellows do you want me to hire?"

"I'm not sure yet. Two, maybe. We'll have to wait to see what kind of case load you have." She nodded at the patient file open on the desk. "You've started already. Good."

He looked down at the file. "The patient's been seen here before. I sent Dr. Marten to re-run some tests."

"Keep me updated."

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy."

She feigned deep interest in the construction progress, walking over to take a closer look. Greg seemed alright; he got through his first interview, hired his first fellow. Was there anything to suggest he was performing less than optimally?

Turning back, she saw a small white object on the floor, out of sight from the other side of the desk.

"Greg, what's that?"

The slave kept his eyes turned down. Was he trembling?

"Answer me, Greg."

"It's a crane, Dr. Cuddy."

She knelt and picked it up. It was a delicate paper crane folded from a scrap of notebook paper. The paper was dirty and had clearly been creased several times, but the final product was admirable.

"And did you do this?" she continued.

"Yes, ma'am." Now he really was trembling.

Dr. Cuddy spoke clearly and slowly as she stepped back towards the door. "You've done good work, Greg. The Diagnostics department has begun to function just as you yourself designed it to. However, never make the mistake of thinking that it would disappear without you. Your work is valuable, but far from indispensable." She was standing in front of the desk again. "If you give me reason to think that you can't do this job, the hospital is going to be in the unfortunate position of owning the most expensive piece of sanitation equipment in history. And I don't want that."

Greg didn't take his eyes off the little paper ornament held in her fingers. "I don't want that either, ma'am."

* * *

><p>Down in the ER, Sarah felt too sick to go home, but not sick enough to stay quiet.<p>

"I told them there was something wrong with me," she complained to the doctor holding the clipboard. He nodded, writing something down. "Go on," he said.

"It's an allergy or something but they told me I didn't have any. That whole test was a waste of time."

"The scratch test you did tested for the most common allergies, but there's a lot of other things you might be allergic to instead."

"So do I need to do another test?"

"Yes. Sorry about that," Dr. Marten added when Sarah groaned. "We've given your case to a specialist. We should be able to answer your questions very soon."

"A specialist? Does that mean I'm really sick?" She looked terrified.

"No, no," Marten assured her. Christ, this is why he had been so glad to hide away in labs; not much chance of saying the wrong thing there. "But because you're clearly still sick and your last test didn't tell us anything, we just want to look a little closer."

Sarah accepted this, or maybe she was too tired to argue anymore.

Marten thanked her for her patience. Turning to leave, he almost tripped over a large red purse.

"Sorry," Sarah said. "That's mine. Someone must have dropped it there. Hey, hand it to me? I gotta write down that stupid lunch."

He watched her dig out a little notebook - red to match her purse, he noticed. A clever way of reminding her to carry it along. "What's that?"

"This? Oh, the doctor I saw told me to keep a food diary. I write down everything I eat so I can see what makes me sick. I still don't know what I'm allergic to, but I guess it's better than doing nothing." Sarah used a little matching pen to mark the date and her disastrous food court lunch.

"May I have a look?"

She handed it over. It was a consistently kept little record, if not very thorough. Entries consisted of lists like "Plain tuna fish. Apple. Peanut butter." and "Hard boiled egg. Apple. Milk." Earlier entries had red X marks next to "Ramen noodles" and "Grilled cheese sandwich."

Interesting. Very interesting.

Marten closed the diary. "Could I borrow this for a while?"


End file.
